Momentum
by JellyBean30
Summary: 4th in a series. Sort of a dark exploration of how House & Cameron might possibly end up together. Previous installments Inertia, Paralyzed & Collide. M for language, adult themes etc etc etc - COMPLETE
1. Follow

**_A/N: Without making this the longest Author's Note ever ... this story is the 4th in a series: Inertia, Paralzyed, Collide & now Momentum. This story covers the exact same event as in Collide, but this time we're seeing it from House's POV instead of Cameron's. Some of it will seem familiar, because I've kept the dialogue exactly the same. As always, thanks for reading._**

**_Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't even think I put one of these on the first three parts because it's so painfully obvious that I don't own them, I didn't want to insult your intelligence._**

**Momentum**

_These feelings won't go away  
They've been knockin' me sideways  
I keep thinking in a moment that  
Time will take them away  
But these feelings won't go away  
-Sideways by Citizen Cope-_

**Chapter 1 - Follow**

You sit in your office, flinging your tennis ball against the wall and catching it in the crook of your cane. Flick, thump, catch. Flick, thump, catch. The rhythm is comforting. The repetition is comforting. The predictability is comforting.

You need a little comfort.

You flick your cane a little harder than necessary. The ball bounces harder off the wall and returns quicker. It ricochets off the edge of your cane and rolls lazily across the carpeted floor. You blow out a breath from puffed cheeks and prop your cane against your desk. You can't be bothered to retrieve the ball. It wasn't helping keep your mind off things anyway.

Off Cameron.

You're done denying to yourself that you think about her. Like most things that strike a chord in you, the more you try to keep her out of your head the more she appears. When you were a younger man, you might have been concerned about your obsessive need to think about something. Now you've built a life around your mind's obsessions. If your mind wants to mull over Cameron, mulling it will be.

You're not pining, or brooding, or any of the things Wilson would accuse you of if he knew the reason behind your current solitude. You're just … thinking. You had thought you'd figured this all out. She was with Chase; she seemed happy. Happy Cameron was what you wanted. Maybe, _maybe_, you'd prefer to think she could have been happy with you. But you're not so much of a bastard yet that you'd want to take it away from her on the chance you could give it back yourself.

Are you ready to take that chance now?

You've just overheard a new bit of gossip. It's both expected and another surprise from the woman who puzzles you more than any patient. Cameron and Chase are no longer together. You've been expecting to hear this for ages; you're surprised it lasted as long as it did. You expected to hear the split was messy; but you're surprised it was her who ended it. You prepared yourself not to think about; you tried not to care.

Not so much, at least.

You care. You've cared for a while. Longer than even you would willingly admit to anyone else. It's taken these entire four years to admit it to yourself. Keeping emotions at bay is second nature to you now, but if anyone has been able to surprise you into feeling things lately, it's been Cameron.

Yes, Wilson and Cuddy make you feel things too, but you expect that. They're from B.I., Before Infarction. They knew you when life and love were just that, and not things to be regarded with distrust and contempt. But Cameron is new; she shouldn't know you can feel those things, shouldn't know how to make you feel those things.

But she does.

You lean back in your chair, rubbing a hand over your face to help clear your mind. You were ready to let yourself think about Cameron, but all you're doing is going in circles, dancing around what you really want, what you need. You need answers.

Why did they break up? Why did they stay here in Princeton? If she stayed with Chase and they're not together, will she leave? What if Chase stayed for her? What if she stayed for you?

You need to know.

You grab your cane and limp off toward the elevators, closing your eyes in frustration when Wilson exits his office and joins you waiting for the doors to open.

"Going somewhere?" Wilson asks. You can sense by his tone of voice that he knows exactly where you're going and it annoys you. It's almost as if he knew this would happen when he came to your office to tell you they'd split up. You aren't going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that he's right, or that he knows anything.

The two of you step into the elevator and you press the tip of your cane against the button for the 1st floor. Wilson smirks.

"It's just past four o'clock you know," he says conversationally. Except Wilson never says anything conversationally and you know he's going somewhere with this. "The ER day shift has ended, I believe."

You tighten your fist around the handle of your cane and begin chanting in your head. _I'm not going to bludgeon him, I'm not going to bludgeon him, I'm not going to bludgeon him._

Wilson opens his mouth to say something else when the elevator stops and the doors open. The lobby is revealed and you can hear two nurses gossiping at the central desk.

"It couldn't be for lack of other opportunities," flat-chested redhead says, making no effort to keep her conversation private.

Wilson elbows you in the side, and you turn to watch her, Cameron, your Cameron, willfully straighten her shoulders and march past the desk with her eyes trained on the door. _That's my girl,_ you think. Wilson smiles at you and steps back inside the elevator, leaving you alone to do whatever is next.

"Then why did she stay?" the screechy-voiced blonde asks her companion. You ignore her, limping after Cameron as fast as you can manage, when she turns and comes nearly nose to Adam's apple with you.

"You know," you say to her in what you hope is a quiet voice, "I've been wondering that very thing."

"Keep wondering," she says to your collarbone. _Interesting,_ you think as she stiff-arms the door and disappears into the parking area. She only shies away from a challenge from you when it's overly emotional.

You follow. Of course you follow. It took you all day to decide to come down here; she's not going to get away without giving you the answers that you need. _The love that you need,_ a voice whispers in your ear.

Your hand easily encircles her forearm and she stops. She turns in your direction, but still doesn't face you. Now that it's happening, you remember why you've been avoiding this very moment. You don't know what to say. Usually you're insulting and she's direct. It's your pattern, and it won't get you anywhere.

"I heard a rumor about you," you say, still keeping your voice quiet. You spend an awful lot of time pontificating, blustering and railing at people. You've almost forgotten how to hold a normal conversation with a regular tone of voice. She must recognize the difference because she finally turns to look at you.

"Don't believe everything you hear. Everybody lies, right?" She flashes you a sad, bitter smile and tries to shake your arm loose. This is the new Cameron; the one who seems completely determined not to let you, not to let anything, get to her. The one who lies.

"Yes, but gossip always has a foothold in truth," you tell her. It does.

"What do you want, House?"

"I want an answer."

She stares blankly. "What's the question?"

You roll your eyes and wind up staring at your Nikes. She's not the same Cameron, not the same woman who followed you with starry-eyed optimism as when you first hired her. That's the product of your influence on her.

"The question," you mutter, and she leans in a little closer, "is why?"

"Why."

"Why did you stay? Speculation runs between you staying for Chase and you staying for me. My sources tell me that you two are splitsville. But you're still here."

"Yeah."

"So…why?" You look at up her and then away, afraid and anxious about the answer.

She sighs. _Shit, _you think, _she did stay for him._ Your mind floods with hurtful, cruel words. She can't ever know why you really asked.

She turns away without answering, but you can't let her go. Not like that. If she didn't stay for you, she needs to leave thinking you don't care. You grab her arm again, harder this time and prepare to unleash your acid tongue on her.

"I need to know," you say instead, and drop her arm. Damn your mouth for following your heart and not your head.

"And if we're really going to talk about this, I need a drink big enough to scare my mother," she says.

You raise an eyebrow at that and try to ignore the spark of hope you feel when she smirks in return. She turns and walks to her car in the lot. You just stand and watch her, wondering if this is the hardest or easiest decision you've ever made.

"You coming?" she shouts, and slides into the driver seat of her car, and then waits there to see if you'll follow.

You smile. It's the easiest decision. You follow.


	2. Why

_Can you tell me what was ever really special about me all this time?  
__How Far We've Come by Matchbox Twenty_

**Chapter 2 – Why **

You wonder how long the two of you can really sit here and_ not_ speak to each other. She seems in no hurry to talk, and you realize now, sitting here with her, you have no idea what to say. How can you even begin to tell her that you want her when you can't even truly believe she could want you?

"This was a bad idea," she says, and begins to slide out of the booth the two of you are occupying. You don't know what you were thinking would happen, but her chickening out first wasn't on your agenda. You can't let her go now; it has to finish, one way or the other.

"Do you love him?"

That isn't exactly what you'd intended to say, but it stops her anyway. She sort of hovers between sitting and standing before lowering herself back onto the seat. She lays her hands on the table and stares out into the bar, jaw clenched tight. She's beautiful, even in her pain.

"Just cut right to the chase," she says.

"Pun intended?" you ask. She glares at you. You could feel badly, you try, but her choice to be with Chase hurt you and you want her to know it.

"I don't love him the way he loves me," she says very slowly. You set your face on 'impassive' and wait to see what else she has to say. Telling you she doesn't love him is a far cry from her loving you.

"And it took you all that time to figure it out?" you ask, more to yourself than really to her. "Maybe Wilson was right," you mumble. Either she hasn't got anything else to offer, or she's just as uncertain about this as you are. You never imagined Cameron to be someone who was unsure about love. She married a dying man. You don't really believe she stayed with him just because he was damaged; you never did. But what if you were wrong? What if he just didn't live long enough for her to figure it out? How long would the two of you last before she figured out you were no good for her?

"Even horses wearing blinders can get spooked by something right in front of them," she says.

"So it was right in front of you the whole time?"

She shakes her head. "Maybe I just took the blinders off." You nod at her explanation, but you don't like it.

You think it's a terrible metaphor. It's like she's saying she should have seen it all along but didn't and that she couldn't have seen it until recently all at the same time. It doesn't make sense. You turn your head away. Maybe love just doesn't make sense.

"Why did you stay?" you ask again. "You must have had other offers, better offers. You managed three years working for me. That's like resume gold."

"It is. And I did. Get other offers. Lots of other offers, actually. But…starting over is still starting over. I didn't want … I don't want to pick up and start another new life for myself."

"You're young," you bite out. This is not the answer you want to hear. You want it to be easier, clearer. She's supposed to pour her heart out. "Starting over shouldn't be so hard."

"I'm not as young as you seem to think. And starting over is always hard," she says with a sad smile.

She stares at her glass on the table intently, as if the melting ice cube inside is about to impart some great wisdom she doesn't want to miss. You have to hear it from her first. You're old, or at least today you feel it. You haven't opened yourself up to someone in a long, long time. If you do, and she doesn't want what you have to give…you don't think you'll be able to put everything back again. She's going to have to get in before you can let yourself out.

"I saw the tape," you tell her. You can't look at her, not yet, but you can feel her frowning at you. "The interview. With the film crew. Before their final edited atrocity was aired, I saw it."

You wait for something; anything. Just some reaction. But nothing comes and dammit you're going to have to ask her…again.

"Why?"

"What?" She sounds surprised by your question. It's not what she expected you to say. You can't decide if that makes it better or worse.

You decide it doesn't matter, because you still need your answer.

"Why do you want me?"


	3. Realize

_By now you should have somehow  
__Realized what you gotta do  
__I don't believe that anybody  
__Feels the way I do about you now  
__-Wonderwall by Ryan Adams_

**Chapter 3 – Realize**

You've had a panic attacks before, they're a possible side effect of detox, and this would certainly not be the time or place you would choose for your next one, but you can feel your pulse racing and your mouth drying up. Your breath is coming in short, frantic gasps and you would swear on a Bible, atheist or not, that the blurriness in your vision is not alcohol related.

You look at Cameron and her posture suggests either she's every bit as nervous about this as you, or she's really a lightweight and you're about to get a sample of her drinks. You've heard some stories, though, from Foreman and you doubt it's the latter. If it's the former you don't know what it means. And you hate that. You hate the uncertainty. You hate not knowing.

"I don't …." she chokes out.

Well.

Now you know.

You slide toward the edge of the booth. You don't need or want to hear the rest. She doesn't want you. The reasons don't matter, the apologies don't matter. All that matters is that she never suspects that wasn't the answer you wanted to hear.

"I don't know what you want to hear," she blurts at your back.

You slide back into the booth slowly, both hands resting on the handle of your cane. You want to tell her what you want to hear. You want to hear that she never stopped caring. You want to hear that she has only been protecting herself. You want to hear that you're worth it.

"I can't answer your question. I can't spell it out for you. And even if I could, you wouldn't believe me. House, I don't know how to be around you. I'm not sure it even matters. Because no matter how I am, it always seems like you've already decided how this whole thing is going to go."

You shrug. You're going to keep being noncommittal until she tells you something concrete. She sighs and closes her eyes. You stare at her unabashed for those few seconds when you know she can't see you. You were so worried that you were going to ruin her, hurt her, damage her. You should have been worried about what she was going to do to you.

"It's like we're playing parts in a movie, only I don't have the script. You already know what's going to happen and I'm just fumbling along trying to keep up with you," she says. You smile, this is a metaphor you can follow. "I keep missing my cues. Dropping lines. And this is the scene where I'm supposed to…do what? Make an impassioned speech about how much I love you and why we should be together? Tell you sadly that I love another man and we can never be? Throw myself at you?"

You look away when she suggests that she loves another man. You know she doesn't mean Chase. But you also really believe she could love someone else, someone better. She left Chase because she couldn't love him the way she thought he deserved. Are you any different? Do you think there isn't another man, a hundred other men, who could love her better? Not more. But better.

"And even worse than not knowing what I'm supposed to be saying is knowing…it probably doesn't make any difference. Because you already know what you're here for, and even if I said all the right things, whatever those right things are, it wouldn't make any difference. You're going to do what you're going to do." You want to tell her that you don't know what to do but she's really on a roll and you can't even get a word in. Drunk Cameron is kind of pushy. "I could give you a hundred reasons why I want you. And another hundred why it's the stupidest idea I've ever had. But none of those answers matter. Because you're asking the wrong question."

You sit back a little to think about what she's saying. You let your eyes flicker over the room but you avoid looking at her. You need a clear head to think and she makes that harder. You're asking the wrong question. You don't know what other question to ask. You tilt your head. What other question is there? You can feel your jaw clenching in frustration. This shouldn't be so hard to figure out.

"What's the right question?" you ask finally.

She leans in slowly. This is achingly familiar, and you hope this time there is no ulterior motive. You knows what's coming, and this time you don't hesitate. The moment your lips brush hers you loose yourself in a flood of memories. You press your tongue against her lips because you remember what she tastes like and you have to know how the drinks change that. She tastes like sky and warmth and home. She tastes like hope and peace. She tastes like everything you wish you had but don't, like everything you need.

You don't know what this kiss means. If it means a beginning, then you want it to be burned into your memory so you can compare every subsequent kiss to it. How else will you be able to tell if passion is fading and love isn't filling the void? If it means the end, you don't want to waste your last chance to show her the only way you know you can't screw up.

You kiss for what feels like hours, but in reality is probably barely a minute. She breaks the kiss and leans back a fraction. You want to grab her and force her lips back to yours. You want to make her feel it too. But something in her eyes stops you. It's something guarded, something sad. It's something she needs.

"You said something about a question?" you ask. You don't even try to measure your voice. She needs something…it can't be wrong to let her know you need something too.

"As sad as it is that you have to ask why I would want you…it's even sadder to ask…why don't you want me?"


	4. Start Over

_Walking like a one man army  
Fighting with the shadows in your head  
Living out the same old moment  
Knowing you'd be better off insteadIf you could only  
Say what you need to say  
-Say by John Mayer_

**Chapter 4 - Start Over **

Nothing happens.

Not just you don't respond.

Nothing.

Happens.

You wait, while you try to get your head around the biggest irony life has ever presented you. You have spent the last four years trying to convince her that you don't want her. And only now, _now, _when you finally feel like you're ready to admit that you do and maybe take a chance with her, you've succeeded. She thinks you don't want her.

You waiver.

Would it be easier? Would it make your life simpler if you let her keep thinking that? What would it take to make her believe you'd been lying? Are you willing to give it?

Does hesitating make you a coward?

You back off. It's almost imperceptible. Almost. But with scarcely an inch between you any movement is noticeable and she does. The moment is broken and you haven't given her an answer.

You can't.

You don't know what the answer is.

You don't know why you're so surprised. You told her enough times that you don't want her. Insulted her, belittled her, humiliated her in public and private while she ran dozens of titers and gels and helped you saved countless lives. You've insinuated over and over that the whole thing, whatever the thing is, exists only in her head.

But you are still surprised she believes it.

She slides back rapidly across the worn leather seat and gropes blindly for her purse, training her eyes on the table. She lurches from her seat and swoons slightly; you didn't think she'd drunk that much and you can feel that part of your brain that puzzles out symptoms kick into gear. You have to force yourself to stop and consider an alternative even worse than Cameron having some mysterious disease: you've finally pushed her away so hard she's falling.

"Cameron …"

"Don't," she cuts you off and you cringe. You haven't heard that particular tone of voice in a long time. You think Wilson's come close a few times, but there's a very subtle difference in the inflection. Wilson gives an awful lot of himself to you, but not everything. This was the voice of someone who had been willing to give everything, and been turned away.

You hate this voice.

She's still just standing there and you wait. You're good at waiting, you realize. You've been waiting four years. Maybe you waited too long.

"I didn't want to start over. Not again. But I can't keep going here. Not like this. Call it running if you want, but I can't get past this, get past you, when you're right in front of me."

This is different. You've heard this sentiment from her before but this time is different. This time, you think she might really mean it.

"You were right," she says, and you're surprised that sweet little Cameron could sound so bitter and world-weary. "I am pathetic. And naïve and all the other things that stopped you from wanting me. And even though I hate that you're such a coward, I hate that I'm still so pathetic even more. Because from now on, no matter what, every knock on my door is going to sound like wood on wood. Because that's what I'm waiting to hear."

You reach for her, but she's already leaving. You flashback to the nightmares you'd been having. Nightmares of Cameron literally slipping through your fingers. You've never believed in omens or portents, but this is a little too close to your dream for comfort.

You want to go after her. You do. But some part of you, the self-preserving part that's been making all these types of decisions for the last ten years or so thinks you ought to stay. Just let her leave. You'd heal, and so would she. Life would go on and some day you'd realize you hadn't thought of her for a while. And then one day you'd think of her and it wouldn't hurt.

Or so you'd like to believe.

But the more cynical part of you knows that self-preservation is exactly why you've been so completely alone for nearly a decade. Time heals all wounds. That's crap. Ten years avoiding love hadn't healed you. It had stunted you. Crippled you. What would another ten years do?

You push away your drink, unfinished. Self-preservation had done exactly that. Preserved you in the state you were when Stacy left. Angry, bitter and alone.

You think now, the time for self-preservation is done. It's time to start over.


	5. Miles

_There's a darkness  
__Living deep in my soul  
__I still got a purpose to serve  
__So let your light shine  
__Deep into my home  
__God don't let me lose my nerve  
-__Put Your Lights On by Santana featuring Everlast_

**Chapter 5 - Miles **

You are more alone than you realize, because as soon as your bike pulls up in front of your apartment you notice how dark it looks from the outside. No lights on to welcome you, not even the phantom flickering of a television to break the sheer blackness of the windows. No plants or bric-a-brac to adorn the window sills, the shades pulled fully closed. If not for your knowledge that this was your home, it might well be mistaken as vacant.

_You're riding your bike, the bright red Schwinn your mother had given you for your birthday earlier in the summer. She'd told you it was your father's idea, and for a brief and pathetic second you'd believed her. But then you met her eyes and you saw the lie immediately. He was miles away, while the two of you lived out another year on some base you couldn't be bothered to remember the name of near a village whose name you still struggled to pronounce. _

_You see the lights on the base flicker on as the sun sets and you start pedaling toward home. Your mother doesn't like when you stay out after dark. You decide to take a short cut to try and cut some of the distance instead of riding through the center of the village. You've biked this road before, but mostly as you pump your legs in an attempt to escape the base and the scenery usually passes you in a blur._

_You've never noticed this house before, but it has a certain pull and you stop pedaling and coast to a stop in front of it. Squat and compact, with a thatched roof and crumbling walls, it looks like every other house in the village. But it doesn't. It's different. The house makes you think of your father. You shudder and push off on your bike again. You can't put your finger on what's different about that house, but you know you don't like it._

The memory fades and you shake your head. You realize now, with a few more years experience under your belt, and as you straddle a very different kind of bike, that you know exactly what made that house different. It was empty. Vacant. Just like the place in your family that should have been filled by your father. Just like your house. Just like you.

You push your helmet back down on your head and speed off, fleeing from your vacant and staring house just like you sped from that tiny shack all those years ago. You don't think about it, you just do it.

It isn't until the miles begin to take their toll on your leg that you pause to consider what you're doing. You're running. It takes more equipment now than it used to, but essentially it's the same. You're running away. You pull the bike off the highway you find yourself on at the next rest stop. Your leg has grown a little stiff. You stow your helmet and unhook your cane, limping from the parking lot toward the picnic tables provided.

_You've been caught out of bounds again. Your father isn't happy when he learns you've been riding your bike all over the village when he comes home on leave. He's forbidden you to take the bike off the base, but you have and now you've been caught. You hang your head, not with shame, but because it's what he expects._

"_You're so contrary Gregory," your father growls, "sometimes I wonder if I wouldn't be better off ordering you to cause trouble. I almost believe you might behave yourself just to spite me. Punishing you doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere."_

_You squash the hope that blossoms in your chest. He'd never stop trying to order you around. And he certainly would never pass up an opportunity to 'teach you the value of discipline'. You clench your teeth and let him begin your lesson. It isn't giving in, you tell yourself. It's just self-preservation._

You blink away another unwelcome memory. You look around and sigh. You did eventually stand up to your father and escape him and his rules. Or you thought you had. But maybe all you really did was run away.

Maybe what you always do is run away.

And you're still running.

You don't have to be alone, sitting on the side of some highway watching cars and trucks and life pass you by. There's a woman out there, probably crying over you right now, who wants to share her life, herself, with you. And what do you do?

You run away.

Because it's scary, because you might get hurt.

The running doesn't stop the hurt, just trades it for another variety. And where has the running gotten you? Tired and alone, and miles away from where you want to be.

It's time to stop running.

You make a quick stop in the men's room before you climb back on the bike to drive the longest miles of your life. The miles that might take you not just to another person, but to another life.

It's late as you pull up in front of Cameron's building. You climb off the bike and make your way slowly to the lobby. You bounce your cane impatiently on the floor as you wait for the elevator, already thinking this is probably a bad idea. When the doors open you hesitate, almost frozen with fear. The doors begin to slide closed and you almost turn to leave.

You don't.

If nothing else, the running has given you something you've been needing for a long time.

Momentum.

You stretch your arm with a practiced motion and force your cane between the closing doors. They slide back open and you limp inside, jabbing the button for Cameron's floor with the tip of your cane before planting it on the carpet. There's no need for the nervous tapping now. You've made up your mind.

The momentum carries you down the hall to Cameron's door. You lift your cane and tap the handle on the wood sharply.

The only thing left now is to hope you still have enough momentum to get you inside.

tbc ... hopefully in the fifth & final part - Fusion


End file.
